


You Make It Feel Like Christmas

by Snowbaz-Mama (chrissy_lee)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Retail, And I'm not sorry, And Simon has no clue but loves Kelly Clarkson and Arianna Grande, Bah Humbug, Baz loves classic movie musicals, But for Christmas Carols, Christmas Carol Battle, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Retail Worker Baz Pitch, Retail Worker Simon Snow, Retail is Hell at the Holidays, Simon and Baz are basically the protagonists in a Hallmark Christmas movie, sort of a song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28207002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissy_lee/pseuds/Snowbaz-Mama
Summary: Baz Pitch loves his job picking out menswear for customers at a fancy department store, but not during the holidays, and especially not with Simon Snow, who mans the sportswear department, rubbing his Christmas cheer in his face.Can Simon help Baz find some Christmas spirit, or is Baz destined to stay a Grinch forever?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is absolute fluff, but for some reason I just could not get it out of my head that these two would be hilarious working in different departments with totally different vibes at some fancy department store (picture a Bloomingdale's or Neiman Marcus). So, a few chapters later, and here we are! 
> 
> This fic is dedicated to everyone who has to work in retail during the holidays -- it's honestly no joke. I worked at the mall the year that Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" came out and that song is permanently etched on the inside of my brain, for better or for worse. 
> 
> It's also unbetaed, so please let the spirit of the holidays grant me forgiveness and continuity for you all.
> 
> Happy Holidays!

**BAZ**

The Civil War general William Tecumseh Sherman said, “It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.”

May I revise that slightly in the spirit of the holidays: “It is only those who have never worked in a store during the holiday season nor heard the shrieks and groans of the shoppers who cry aloud for the same shirt in a different size, more free samples, more gift wrap. Working retail at the holidays is hell.”

When I was hired at Tibbert’s Fine Department Store for the menswear department, I figured it would be like being a personal shopper. I mean, I have exceptional - and expensive - taste in clothing and I always lead the customer to the same thing he came in for, but better and just slightly costlier. Most of the year, this is exactly what my job entails: dressing clueless but casually wealthy men in an effort to help them get a promotion, get laid, or get the approval of their parents. 

My manager fucking loves me. I’m really good at my job, and normally I truly enjoy it. Dressing is an art, one I happen to take very seriously nearly every month of the year.

Every month, that is, except the one leading up to the holidays. 

I have no idea what it is about the holidays that turns perfectly normal people into feral animals. The floor of the store becomes as wild as a pinewood forest, the customers sniffing out the best deals, scrapping over the last cashmere scarf on the the display, or, in the case of the many disgruntled children and spouses I’ve seen being dragged about on holiday shopping trips, hiding like field mice in quiet corners, hoping to escape the notice of the hawk or owl soaring above. 

The constant stream of upbeat music. The endless flow of people. The excessively shiny decorations. The glitter - oh! The glitter. It’s all too much for my poor introverted Grinch heart to take. 

But I have a job to do - dress up men who, this time of year, are trying to impress their partner’s parents who they’ll be meeting for the first time, or perhaps they’re hoping to make a move on someone they’ve had their eye on all year at the office Christmas party. Maybe they’ll be proposing to their partner in the most horrendously cliche way I could ever imagine. (Why share your special day with another holiday? Tasteless.) 

At least for the most part, people coming to shop in my department are hoping to dress themselves in some attempt to keep up their appearances, and that is something I can respect.

Something I cannot respect? The men’s sportswear section across the aisle. Not only are there appalling displays of tracksuit bottoms and matching jackets and hoodies everywhere you look (my god -- all those Adidas stripes -- I don’t care if they’re designed by Yeezy), but their decor and music clash disturbingly with our tasteful decorations and Christmas music being piped out over the dress shirts, ties, and blazers from my section. Instead of the classic sounds of, say, Michael Buble or Kenny G., their section blasts out Christmas carols by Run DMC, the Jonas Brother, and, of course, Mariah Carey. 

All I want for Christmas is for the fuckboys who shop and work in this section to keep to their side while I keep to mine. 

Usually I have no trouble maintaining my distance - it’s a lot of work to make sure that the fine linens, silks, and cottons of my merchandise are correctly displayed, and the shoppers in my section usually demand a lot of my attention. But lately, with the new onslaught of holiday help, there have been a few--distractions. 

“Hey, Baz! How are you today?” I look up from straightening the corner display of ties on my side and there he is, beaming at me across the aisle like a million twinkling lights on a Christmas tree. Simon Snow, the king of all fuckboys, with an undercut that pushes his curls up high so they sit lopsided atop his head in a messy bronze pile. He’s clad from head to toe in Puma, his tapered camo joggers clinging absurdly to every part of his ridiculous ass and thighs. I try to ignore him, but I know he won’t stop talking until I acknowledge him. 

“Fine, Snow.” I nod curtly at him, brushing my hair over my shoulder and straightening out my button-down shirt (a Bugatchi, black with rainbow flowers). 

“Busy today? We had such a rush this morning, but looks like we’re slowing down a bit now for lunchtime. Expect we’ll pick up again this afternoon. Ahh! I love this track!”

Sia’s “Candy Cane Lane” starts pouring out above our heads, instantly clashing with Frank Sinatra’s jazzy version of “Jingle Bells.”

A couple browsing the Champion display looks up as Snow begins to bust a move right there in the aisle. 

“Red and yellow and pink and green...Christmas is waiting for you! Christmas is waiting for yoooooooou!” He looks directly at me, pointing and grinning wildly.

I feel like I’m going to combust under his stare, so I clear my throat and begin to walk away from him.

“Oh, c’mon Baz! Why do you have to be such a bah humbug? Do you believe this guy? Who doesn’t love this song?” he laughs, turning to the couple in commiseration. They shake their heads at me, laughing with him at my expense. I roll my eyes and make use of my long legs to stride as far into my section as I can get, away from Snow’s braying laughter, away from his boring blue eyes, away from his unrelenting Christmas spirit. 

I never did belong with the polyester hoodies and sweatpants that hug strong thighs in all the right places; the men who wear them never made my life easy growing up. 

I don’t belong over there. I belong over here, with the neckties, the mohair sweaters, the button ups, and the tweed blazers. I know my place, my role, and I can pay it well.

But fuck if Simon Snow doesn’t make me want to cross that aisle every day, synthetic sweatshirts be damned.

**SIMON**

I don’t get why he doesn’t love working here.

I mean, there’s always free donuts and coffee in the break room. The decorations in here are killer -- there are lights twinkling everywhere, upbeat music playing -- I’m so happy when I come into work every day. 

Compared to the dreariness of my group homes growing up or working at some fast food joint, this place is like the fucking North Pole. It’s a sparkly dream, and I get to help people every day. I mean, sure, I’m just selling them things. But I love interacting with them, helping them find the right gift for someone they care about. 

Not that I’ve never done that before.

I just like thinking that I’m a teensy bit a part of someone’s happy holiday when I help them do it. 

I don’t think my coworker across the aisle cares too much for this time of year, though. He’s like Ebenezer Scrooge. Looks about as rich and stingy as him as well. At least, he’s stingy with the smiles and conversation. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Baz smile since I started working here - not once. I’ve tried -- Lord knows I’ve tried -- to engage him in conversation. 

“Hey Baz, where are you ordering for lunch today? I could pick us up something.”

“I don’t eat lunch, Snow.”

“Hey Baz, did you try the vanilla frosted donuts Micah brought in this morning?”

“I don’t eat breakfast, Snow.”

God, no wonder he’s so damn long and lanky. I mean, his legs go on for miles, and he’s clearly in shape. Those trousers wouldn’t look nearly as good on anyone else if they didn’t have the defined ass of a soccer player to fill them out in just the right places. Which he does. I mean, not that I’ve been looking at Baz’s ass. It’s just…

Okay. I have been. Looking at his ass. And maybe his hair. Those patterned shirts he wears? Only he could pull those off. 

I can’t help it -- it’s all fucking perfect. Like the rest of him. 

I’m sure he’s got some rich society girlfriend. Or maybe he’s just waiting for his parents to set him up with someone from their racquetball club or something. (Is that a thing? I think that’s a thing rich people do.) And I’m not even gay? I mean, maybe noticing another dude’s ass is a tiny bit gay.

But it doesn’t really matter, because Baz wants nothing to do with me. I think I just want to be his friend, to help him get into the holiday spirit or something. 

I decide that it’s going to be my personal mission to save Baz from himself - to get him into the spirit of the holidays, my own little Christmas miracle. 

I tried again this morning, but he refused to sing along to Sia. I stand on my tip-toes, hoping to catch a glimpse of him in his section to see what he’s up to now, when I see him talking to another man around our age. Wait, not just talking -- but actually...is he...laughing? Smiling?

_ Flirting?! _

I look around. My section is pretty quiet right now, so I duck down and cross the aisle into the menswear. I sneak closer and closer to where he’s standing next to the man, hiding behind a display of pocket squares. It looks like he’s helping him pick out a black blazer and some matching button-up shirts. I see Baz smoothing out the placards of the other man’s shirt, fiddling with the buttons, pulling at the lapels of the blazer. 

The other man is beaming up at Baz, running a hand nervously through his hair. I sneak a little closer to try and hear what they’re saying.

“...I’m expected at the party. I mean, if I skipped out, it wouldn’t look too good, you know?”

“Of course,” Baz says politely back. “Can’t let your superiors down.” So he  _ is _ capable of normal adult conversation. He adjusts a pocket square in the man’s front blazer pocket. “I know the gallery where your party is being held - it’s a lovely space.”

“Oh yeah? Say, you wouldn’t want to maybe…” Baz looks down at the man, momentarily surprised, then demurely pushes his hair back behind his ear. 

“Oh! Well, that is very kind of you, but I don't think…”

“C’mon - it’ll be fun.” The man reaches out and gives Baz’s arm a gentle squeeze before reaching up and fingering the very edge of his hair. Baz steps back, but the man advances forward again, edging up into Baz’s personal space. 

I decide to save him. “Oh, hey, Baz! Whatcha doing?”

Both men freeze, then turn and look at me - the man with irritation, Baz with exasperation, but also, maybe, a little relief.

“Snow? What are you doing over here? I’m in the middle of a consultation!”

“Well, I uhhh...I heard a song I liked. Over on this side.”

“A...song?”

“Yeah! A Christmas song! Isn’t this uhhh…” I point my finger at the ceiling, gesturing to the music coming out of the speakers. I actually have no idea what the song is or who is singing it. 

“Dude, do you mind? We’re kind of in the middle of something here.” The man glares at me. 

“Were you now?” I glare back at him.

“Ah, Snow - I think you have some customers waiting over there.” Baz points back over to my section. We all turn to look; the red and green spotlights are blinking against the back display of new Kappa jackets and joggers and I can hear the bass of Justin Bieber and Busta Rhymes’ “Little Drummer boy” thumping over whateverthefuck sad, classy song is playing over here. I look around me at the refined tartan bows, wreaths, and white lights of Baz’s floor and realize that I’ve way overstepped my boundaries, waded outside of my comfort zone. 

“Oh, right. Umm...yeah. See you, then. Sorry.” I turn to go, when I hear Baz’s voice behind me.

“Snow?”

I turn around and look at him. His face is inscrutable. “It’s ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ - the Judy Garland version.”

I nod. “Oh yeah, right. Thanks, Baz.”

I swear he gives me a small smile before returning to his customer, who is now taking off the blazer and having Baz place it and a number of shirts into a garment bag while he readies to pay.

I smile, satisfied - but I’m not quite sure what it is I’m satisfied about. 

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz is a classic movie music buff, Simon is pretty clueless about anything remotely refined, and would you consider going out with someone who doesn't like Christmas carols?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I think this sort of ended up a bit of a song fic, which was completely accidental, and also betrays my deep love of Christmas music and movies of all sorts (but only after Thanksgiving, and only in the appropriate context.). 
> 
> Anyway, don't you think that Simon has a Buddy the Elf vibe? He would make such a good Santa's helper. 
> 
> Also, he may not know much about classic movie musicals, but he sure would watch the heck out of a Hallmark Christmas movie.

**BAZ**   
  


I’m still a little shaken from this afternoon. Good-natured flirting from some customers is something I’m used to. I know how I look, and I have gotten a fair share of numbers from both men and women in this line of work. But the touching - the advancing - that was new and frankly, not very welcome. 

I’m feeling oddly grateful that Simon Snow popped his head out of literally nowhere to say hello in his usual obnoxiously friendly way at just the right time. 

What would have happened if he hadn’t?

Shaking my head, I check my watch and see that I’ve missed my lunch break. I pass the floor off to Agatha and head back to the break room. I’m dying for a cup of coffee. This day has been a long one already -- and it’s only 1:30. 

I push the door open to see none other than Simon Snow sitting at the long table, his mouth wide open over a spoonful of Maruchan Instant Lunch, eyes glued to the screen of his phone. He pauses mid-lift and looks towards the sound of the door opening, his face lighting up when he sees that it’s me. 

He puts his plastic spoon back into the styrofoam bowl. “Hey, Baz! I didn’t know this was your lunch break time!”

“It isn’t usually - I just missed my lunch. Got too busy on the floor, I suppose.” I head to the counter and begin to fix myself a cup of coffee.

“What’s for lunch?” he asks. 

“Coffee,” I say, turning my back to him as I pour in the cream and sugar.

“Oh, c’mon - that’s not a meal! Wanna split my noodles with me?”

I turn back and stare at him in disbelief. 

Why is this man always so nice to me? He barely knows me and I’ve given him no reason whatsoever to put himself out on my behalf. Yet here he is again, trying to help me. I decide not to be an asshole, but it doesn’t come easily. I take a moment to compose myself.

“No, thank you, Snow. That is -- a kind gesture. Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s alright. Have a seat then, at least. Have lunch with me?” He’s looking up at me with his big blue eyes, his curls in a jumble, sweeping deliciously over his forehead. 

I sit opposite him, cradling my coffee in my hands. He smiles stupidly at me, then continues to shovel his noodles into his maw. It should be repulsive, but it’s weirdly charming - cute, even. 

Cute.  _ Get a grip. _

“So,” I start. “Judy Garland, then?”

“What?” He stares at me in confusion.

“The song you wandered over to my floor to hear in the middle of my consultation this morning? ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ It’s the original - from  _ Meet Me In St. Louis _ . Judy Garland starred in it.”

He clearly has no idea what I’m talking about, but for some reason I feel compelled to continue talking about it. 

“It’s a movie - a classic. It was one of my mother’s favorites, actually.” I look down, picking at a small chip in the side of the mug before taking a sip to distract me from the awkward conversation I’ve walked myself right into. 

“Let me guess - you have one of those families who sit around together and watch the same Christmas movies year after year?” 

“Oh. Well, not exactly. My mother isn’t alive anymore.” I have no idea why I would tell him this, but his face seems so open and sincere that before I can stop myself, I’m spilling more and more about my family. And he’s listening, paying rapt attention to every word I’m saying. 

“She died when I was ten. So I watch it every year. Alone. My father never cared to watch it again, after…” I trail off.

He startles me by reaching across the table and gripping one of my hands in his. My skin buzzes at the small, sudden contact. “Hey, that’s nice that you still do that for her. Gotta keep her memory alive, you know?”

I nod dumbly, not daring to look up into his face. But then I do, meeting his eyes. He has one of those faces that belongs in an ad for Ray Bans or tanning lotion or deliciously short bathing trunks - something out in the sun. Freckled. Golden. Glowing.

I shake myself back to reality. “How about you? Do you spend your days off huddled around the television watching bad Christmas films with your family then?”

“Nah. Haven’t got much of a family - it’s just my best friend, Penny, and me. I go home with her sometimes for the holidays, but she has like five brothers and sisters and a million cousins. It’s chaos. And after working here for the holidays, I don’t mind the peace and quiet,” he shrugs.

“So you’ll be home all alone?” I ask in disbelief. It doesn’t feel right that his piece of human sunshine should be left to his own devices.

He shrugs again and I can sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “It’s fine, really. Where are you spending the holidays?” he deflects.

“I usually spend Christmas Eve with my Aunt Fiona, but she’s out of town this year. So I’ll be with my father and stepmother for both days. And my four half-siblings, I suppose. They’re a nuisance, but they love me.”

“Wow -- four siblings!” he breathes out, looking happier for me than I actually feel at the prospect of going home for Christmas. “I’ve always wanted a huge family to spend the holidays with. Sitting ‘round a big table, laughing, passing food…”

“It’s really not all it’s cracked up to be. The grass isn’t always greener, Snow.”

He goes tight-lipped for a moment. “Right. Okay, so, I don’t really understand -- why do you hate Christmas again? If you have people to spend it with? People to buy presents for?”

I sit up and cross my arms in front of me. Who does he think he is, telling me I hate Christmastime? (Even though I do.)

“It’s just so…” I wave my hands around, expecting him to get it. “We work in retail, Snow. The holidays are absolute hell! Have you seen these people? What even _ is _ the Christmas spirit when any one of these customers would gladly rip the other’s head off for a chance to get their hands on the last holiday edition lipstick set or some other shit, thoughtless gift?”

“Come on - not every customer is like that.  _ Yours _ don’t seem to be.” I blush for a moment, thinking of how he interrupted black blazer man this morning. 

“Yes, because people generally don’t come storming in to grab armfuls of $300 button-up shirts. But I  _ have _ seen their behavior when the newest pair of Adidas Yeezy Boosts comes out. Don’t try telling me that shopping at the holidays doesn’t bring out the worst in everyone,” I sniff.

“Listen -- I get that working retail isn’t for everyone. I’m sure you’re just working here for fun while you’re off finishing your law degree or something…but I--” he stops mid-sentence, looking off to the side for a moment before meeting my gaze again. 

“I actually...I love it here! Growing up like I did, there was no holiday magic. An occasional Christmas tree. Donated presents, if we were lucky. Here there’s like, a million Christmas trees! And such wonderful songs. And people are here because they love someone else enough to remember them at the holidays, and I just, I think that's just--” He’s blustering now, pulling at his beautiful pile of curls. I want to reach out and stop him. “It’s really lovely. To be a part of that, I guess.”

He’s looking down into his lunch. “And...I just really love Christmas carols. It’s dumb, I know. Nevermind, Baz.”

And now he’s gone and made  _ me _ feel bad. What the actual fuck. 

I sigh deeply. I don’t know what kind of magic resides in this person that he makes me feel free to pour out my secrets left and right, but here we are. 

“Simon…” His head whips up. I have never called him that - it slipped out before I could stop it. “I...look. My mother, she...she died. Around this time. It’s still hard for me. And my father. All the decorations and lights and music...it’s just really overwhelming for me sometimes, you know? And being here just throws it back in my face that she’s not around anymore.”

“So, why do you still work here then? If it’s painful? Surely you don’t have to. Like, have to like I have to.  _ Won’t make my rent this month if I don’t work 60 hours a week _ have to.”

I shake my head. “No - I don’t,” I admit. “But I love this job.”

“So, you _ are  _ a secret lawyer then? What, do you just do it for the discount on the suits?”

I laugh. “Fuck no, Snow. That’s my father. I literally just want to dress men up. And I’m good at it. That’s why I do it.”

He narrows his eyes at me, then leans forward, elbows on the table, styrofoam cup of what must now be rather cold noodles grasped between his hands. 

“What would you dress me up in, then? If you had the chance? I’m guessing sportswear isn’t exactly your vibe.”

His eyes are flashing...something. Something hot, something dangerous. Something I want.

I rake my eyes over his face, holding eye contact with him a beat longer than feels appropriate, then the rest of his body (the parts I can see while seated, anyway). 

I look back up into his eyes; he doesn’t avert his, so I don’t avert mine. I stare directly into them, then say without hesitation, “Single-breasted grey suit with a faint plaid. Light blue checkered shirt with a dark blue silk tie flecked with tiny pearl white blossoms. Pearl white pocket square. Tighter than average custom tailoring along the thighs of the trousers.”

His stare is smoldering; I feel myself about to start smoking, flaming where I sit, when he suddenly leans back and lets out a full-bellied laugh.

“Oh my god, Baz...I don’t even own a fucking suit but that’s...that’s amazing! How do you do that?”

I throw my hands up, a grin spreading across my face. “What can I say - it’s a gift. I told you, all I want to do is dress men up. And women. And all genders, I suppose. Someday I plan on doing it professionally. My father doesn’t know it, but I’ve applied for graduate programs at the Fashion Institute for next term.”

“So will you quit here then?” he asks, his eyebrows suddenly together in worry.

“Oh, no - suppose I’ll just cut back some hours. It’s good experience for my resume.”

“Well, you can dress me up any time you want.” I look at him in surprise. He’s blushing, flustered, and in an attempt to correct course, bumbles out, “I mean...not like,  _ dress up _ because then you’d have to take my clothes  _ off _ . I mean, not you, but like, if you want a model? No, not like I’m a model, I’m not tall enough, but…”

I’d love to keep listening to him ramble on; it is rather amusing. But I decide to put him out of his misery. “Snow - anytime you need fashion advice, please come over and visit me. Alright? Anything to get you out of those joggers.”

His eyes widen, flashing with amusement. It’s my turn to blush now. “I mean--and into some properly fitted trousers. You know, something with a zipper. And buttons.” 

Oh my god. I wish I could bury my face in my hands right now, but that would be a mite obvious how humiliated I am. 

“Alright Baz. I’ve gotta go back to the floor now, but -- I’ll see you around, yeah?” He’s smiling at me something wicked. He tosses his soup cup in the trash, puts his hand on the door, then throws his head back over his shoulder to send me one last glance, his eyes appraising me, before walking out the door. 

I lean back in my seat and sigh deeply.

What exactly  _ was  _ all that, anyway?

Simon Snow, you may just be the death of me.

**SIMON**

Damn, if I thought he was hot before, now that I’ve found out he has that sad poet dead mom vibe going on, it somehow makes him even more unattainable, even more appealing. 

He said he wanted to get me out of my joggers.

I shake my head - for dressing, dummy. That’s it. Don’t think someone like him would want to be seen walking around with the likes of me anyhow.

I mean... _ he doesn’t even like Christmas carols _ . 

I glance over at the menswear floor and see Baz and Agatha talking, laughing. I somehow just know that they’re not a couple, and for some weird reason, that makes me feel happy. 

What the actual…

Okay. Back to folding my Yeezies. 

Jesus, maybe Baz was right. Not a button or a zipper to be seen anywhere over here.

_________________________

My shift is winding down. I’ve helped the last customer pick out some sweatshirts and a Nike windbreaker for her grandson, so now I’m putting the returned merchandise back onto the floor while “Santa Tell Me” by Arianna Grande is playing. 

_ Feeling Christmas all around...And I'm trying to play it cool...But it's hard to focus when I see him walking around the room.  _

I absentmindedly fluff the pink tinsel tree as I look over to the menswear section. Baz is refolding dress shirts, then adjusting the buttons on a mannequin, just like he did with his customer earlier today. 

The floor is pretty well cleaned up (I should leave the rest for Gareth so he actually, like, does something), so I find myself wandering back over into Baz’s section - only to be stopped by Agatha.

“Hey, Simon.” Her blonde mermaid hair is swaying around her shoulders. She’s holding a sweater that she was in the process of folding. An instrumental of “My Favorite Things” is floating over the floor.

“Oh, ah -- hey, Ags. Is Baz still here?” I look over her shoulders distractedly. She turns her head back to follow my gaze, then turns back around to me, smiling with a knowing look I don’t care for.

“Hmm...I do believe he’s right there. As you can clearly see.” She’s pointing to the exact place I’m currently staring. I suppose I am being a little bit obvious, but I just want to know where he is. 

“You know,” she starts, “I’m not sure Baz has that much to do this evening.”

“What? Oh, uhhh...right. Okay. Yeah. Good to know.

“Simon -- just ask him.” She is looking awfully smug right now. 

“Ask--ask what?” I stammer out. 

“Simon,” she says flatly. “Just ask him.”

She turns and walks away, sweater still in hand, giving me a wide berth to wade into the section, alone with Baz. 

“Snow.” He doesn’t even look up from straightening out the shirt display. “Came for another listen?”

“What? Oh, uhh...yeah. I do love this track. But uhh--no words? At least when we play it, Kelly Clarkson is singing.”

He finally looks up at me. “This version is a classic - it’s John Coltrane, Snow. And besides - you don’t think Kelly Clarkson sang this song originally, do you?”

I’m scratching the back of my head. “Oh, well, I think it’s from a movie, right?” He’s looking at me like I truly am an imbecile.

“Julie Andrews.”

“Julie Andrews? The grandma from  _ The Princess Diaries _ ?”

“What? Oh, well, yes, I suppose she did star in  _ The Princess Diaries _ . But this song is from  _ The Sound of Music _ . She sings it in the movie.”

I stare at him blankly.

“The musical? About the Von Trapp family?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, Baz. I’ve never seen it.”

He looks like I just told him I’d strangled his grandma and thrown her down the stairs. 

“Where did you say you grew up again?” he asks. I can tell he’s trying to be polite, but he’s too shocked and horrified at me to really pull it off. 

“Group homes. Foster homes. I’ve been everywhere, man.”

“Okay, that makes...a lot of things make a lot more sense, Snow. I’m--I’m sorry to have been so presumptuous.”

“No biggie,” I wave him off. “I actually, ahhh…” I’m pulling at my hair, an awful nervous habit I’ve had since I was a little kid. “So I was wondering if I could try to--lift your holiday spirits?”

“How so?” He looks confused. I realized I never asked him what I meant to with actual words.

“Oh! Ummm, I thought maybe, if you weren’t busy now, we could ahhh...stroll down to the High Street? They have amazing decorations around the park. And the Christmas market stalls are so cool - we could have a bite to eat there, maybe? And ummm…”

“You want to take me...Christmas shopping? After we’ve just worked here all day?”

“Baz.” I look at him squarely in the face now. “Shopping at an outdoor market is nothing like shopping here. I’m going to prove to you that there is still magic in Christmas.”

He laughs at me. “Snow, you sound like a Hallmark Christmas movie.”

“ _ And? _ ” 

“And…” He stops, no sharp-tongued answer at the ready. “And...alright. Why not. Show me the magic of the holidays, Snow.”

I know it’s a lot, I’m a lot, but I’m grinning from ear to ear - I can’t help it. 

I’m going to make this beautiful human laugh and smile at the holidays if it’s the last thing I do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I'm obsessed with these characters' clothing choices. As it turns out, some Adidas Yeezy Blasts cost more than a suit, so Baz is being pretty obnoxiously pretentious in this story - but what else is new?
> 
> [Here's](https://www.brooksbrothers.com/Madison-Fit-Saxxon%E2%84%A2-Wool-Plaid-with-Deco-1818-Suit/MK00835_____GREY_38___RG__,default,pd.html?src=googleshopping&cmp=ppc_us_gg_DR_PLA_ML_433615009878_102503752524_2446200196&gclid=Cj0KCQiAifz-BRDjARIsAEElyGKnnJp1MnwMajohZjuWjGwbxAik8yNjgOQIQqBDD4J9nSe-FJXncvkaAvxNEALw_wcB) the suit he's picked out for Simon. And I truly cannot understand the obsession with [these sneakers,](https://www.adidas.com/us/yeezy) but there you are!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas markets are magic. And why isn't there more Christmas carol karaoke around anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my unadulterated fluff! I snuck this last chapter in right at the last minute in between making bread and sticky buns for Christmas day.
> 
> I hope you all have a wonderful holiday annoying your loved ones with obnoxiously overplayed Christmas music!

**BAZ**

After our shifts are over, we meet in front of the break room. He’s already waiting for me when I get there, dressed in his red puffer coat (the color looks amazing next to his bronze curls). I shrug into my black wool peacoat and wrap my gold and gray scarf twice around my neck.

“Baz - are you a...Hufflepuff?” he asks with surprise. 

The corners of my mouth quirk up; so he’s not illiterate (but I suppose even illiterate people have likely watched the  _ Harry Potter _ films). “What makes you think that, Snow?”

“Your scarf colors, of course.”

“Can’t a man wear a scarf that compliments his skin and hair color?”

He looks at me directly. “A man can, yes - but  _ you _ seem like just the type who would try to make something as simple as a scarf have some hidden meaning.”

“Well...perhaps you’ve got me then,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets as we step onto the down escalator. He’s standing one step above me. I’m used to being a few inches taller than everyone, but looking up at Simon Snow, seeing the lights illuminate his curls like a halo, is a welcome change of perspective.

“Hmmm...would have pegged you for a Slytherin. You’ve got that wickedly smart but vaguely evil thing going on. Plus you’re ambitious as hell.”

“Excuse me? ‘Vaguely evil’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon, Baz - you don’t even like Christmas carols. That’s vaguely evil.”

“Fine - I will concede that. But Hufflepuffs are fiercely loyal, and they’ll scratch your eyes out if you threaten them or someone or something they love. We _ are _ badgers, you know.”

“Okay - well, you’re making them sound pretty fucking scary when you put it that way,” he laughs. “Guess what house I am?” His eyes are twinkling mischievously at me.

“Hmmmm…” I’m tapping my finger in my lip, pretending to think hard about it, but I know the answer. “Gryffindor. Obviously,” I smirk.

He playfully swats me on the side of my arm. “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Nope. No, you are not.” He’s smiling at me, and I feel a stupid grin I can’t get rid of spreading across my face. It’s not a familiar sensation, but I’m leaning into it.  When  we reach the end of the last escalator, he grabs onto my arm, pulling me out through the main doors of Tibberts and down the sidewalk towards the High Street and the outdoor Christmas market.

He’s not letting go of my arm, even though we’ve arrived at the edge of where the first stalls are set up. 

I haven’t been here since...well. My mother and father used to love to make an evening of coming to the winter market when I was younger. They’d get me a hot chocolate to sip on as they strolled through the narrow passageways, speaking with vendors, choosing gifts. I’d trail behind them, distracted by all the wares hanging from the booths, or walk with my mittened hand nestled comfortably in my parents’ as we walked together through the winding stalls. 

I’m brought back into the present by Simon, who is now tugging at me, pointing excitedly everywhere. 

I think I’m going to die strolling next to Simon Snow. 

Everything that alights his senses makes him excited: the smells of the open fires roasting sausages and fragrant nuts, the Edison lights strung up, criss-crossed above us, the vendors’ wares displayed in the stalls’ open windows. And of course, the Christmas music being piped from somewhere above us, dissipating into the night air and floating all around like a magical mist. 

“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is playing - but not by Judy Garland.

“Oh! This isn’t Judy Garland!” he exclaims. “But it’s a nice song, yeah?” He pokes me in the bicep. “I know you at least like this one.” I look down at him, smiling.

“If it’s not Judy, I’m not interested,” I say.

“And why’s that?”

“She’s a gay icon, Snow - irreplaceable.”

“Hmmmm...isn’t this Sam Smith singing, though?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“I’m pretty sure they is, too.” He’s smirking at me with a crooked grin that tugs at something inside me. 

If I’m being honest, I’m taken by surprise by his comment. Not only does he know that Sam Smith is a a gay icon, but he’s using their pronouns corretly as well.

Huh. 

“Touche, Snow.” We continue walking, and I’m left wondering just who Simon Snow is -- what he wants, what he likes. Whom he likes. 

He stops at the roasted nut stall to buy a bag of mixed nuts large enough for both of us to share. He offers up the warm waxed bag to me, and my fingers prod the inside, looking for the perfect sugared pecan cluster. Our fingers touch momentarily and we look up, catching each other’s eyes but saying nothing. He pulls his gaze, then the bag, away quickly.

“So,” he says. “Are you feeling the magic of Christmas yet?”

“Hmmm...not sure, Snow. I think you’ll have to do a bit more to convince me.”

“Challenge accepted.” He’s beaming at me uncontrollably, and I can’t help but smile back - I like being something Snow feels he has to best, to conquer and win over.

Truth be told, though, I already feel myself melting into his warmth. 

The irony of this man’s name is not lost on me. 

I let myself get dragged through the narrow passageways between the stalls. We stop occasionally at some of the vendors. I even make a few purchases for my siblings (some handmade wooden stacking toys for the baby, knitted pom-pom hands for the twins, and a necklace for Mordelia). 

We walk in silence, occasionally punctuated with Simon pointing at something with glee. The merchants seem to be drawn to Simon’s enthusiasm, smiling and laughing back, offering him free samples. Giggling groups of girls beam at him as they pass by. Women and men steal more than just passing glances at him. And truly, he’s glowing; he just has one of those faces people love, a natural warmth that draws people in. 

As we stroll, we seem to be drifting closer and closer, Simon occasionally knocking into my shoulder. At first I keep my hands hidden away in my pocket, but eventually I let them drop, if only to experience the delicious sweeping up against me from Simon’s hand when we veer too close to each other. I’m close enough to inhale his warmth. It’s like rising cinnamon buns, something sweet and heady. 

Eventually we come out into a small clearing strung with lights and littered with cafe tables for two around a makeshift dance floor made from wooden pallets placed over the snowy ground. He suddenly darts out his arm and grabs my hand, smiling from ear to ear as he drags me into the center.

Is he...is he planning on dancing with me? My eyes glance at the dancefloor and I realize that it isn’t a dance floor after all - it’s a stage. And is that? No. Is this... _ holiday karaoke _ ?! 

My breath hitches as he stops in the center, spinning around to face me, grabbing both my hands. 

**SIMON**

I have no idea if Baz will like this or not, but I’ve suddenly got a truly terrible idea. 

Certainly this ridiculously, fashionably hot dude from across the sales floor who hates the holidays will love being serenaded by me in public. 

I mean, obviously. 

Before I even realize what I’m doing I’ve hauled him into the middle of the clearing. Smiling at him something fierce, I grab his hands, then turn and walk onto the stage with way more confidence than I actually have. I lean down to the kind-looking lady dressed like Mrs. Claus who is running the karaoke machine.

“Hey! Hi there. I uhhh...I’m hoping to sing a...a Christmas song?”

She looks at me through her half-moon glasses, smiling kindly. “Well, of course dear - what other songs are there?” she chuckles. “Here, dove - have a flip through the book.”

I turn some pages, glancing up to see Baz still standing where I left him, hands in pockets, head cocked to the side. His beautiful black hair looks almost blue under the string lights. He’s giving me a soft, bemused look, one eyebrow quirked up in a question. I shoot him a quick smile back, then return to browsing.

Then, I find it -  _ the _ song. The Christmas song of all songs. 

This one has a lot of range -- but. I sing in the shower. I sing to myself (and Penny - poor Penny) in my apartment. Hell, I even sing while I’m working. Surely, surely, I can do this.

I can do this. 

I point to the song in the book. Mrs. Claus looks surprised, but then nods and winks at me, handing me over the microphone. I turn and look at Baz, who is still standing there waiting, looking at me expectantly.

I used to think that his eyebrow was there for mocking me; now I see it has many personalities. This time, I think it’s a question mark. And I am here to answer. 

I take a deep breath, and then the first few tinkling bells signal the start of the song.

This time,  _ both  _ of Baz’s eyebrows shoot up, a look of recognition crossing his face.

Breathe. 

“ _ And I....don’t want a lot for Christmas…there is just one thing I need… _ ”

I’m really doing this.

“ _ I don’t care about the presents, underneath the Christmas tree… _ ”

I look out into the clearing. 

“ _ I just want you for my own...more than you could ever know… _ ”

Well, I’m in it now. Baz is shaking his head back and forth, like he just doesn’t know what to make of me. 

“ _ Make my wish come truuuuuue....all I want for Christmas...is...yoooooou… _ ”

Cue jingle bells, and here we go. 

I most certainly cannot match Mariah Carey’s immense range as I previously imagined, but I muddle my way through the rest of the song, pointing out into the audience vaguely at every “ _ yooooou. _ ” A bunch of teenage girls have gathered in front of the stage, singing along. Some couples from the cafe tables look up from their hot chocolates for a few moments to watch me humiliate myself up here. They’re laughing and singing, too.

But there’s only one person whose reaction I really care about. 

And he is...smiling. Baz is like, actually smiling. And laughing! Oh my god, he’s throwing his head back laughing at me. With me. And I think I even catch him singing along a tiny bit. My mouth somehow manages to split into a massive grin through my singing. 

By the time I get to the key change, quite a crowd has gathered around me and I’m leaning right the fuck into it - I don’t do things by half-measures. Out of absolutely nowhere I execute a series of dance moves coordinated with the beat of the song - leaning, shimmying, spinning. 

At long, long last I reach the last “ _ Make my wish come truuuuuue _ ,” with the high note approaching. I give it everything I’ve got, making sure to point out into the crowd directly to Baz at the final “ _ yooooooooooou, _ ” the teenagers backing me up with, “ _ Baaaaaby! _ ” 

The song finishes and I’m breathless. The small crowd hoots and hollers at me and Mrs. Claus pats my hand as I give her back the microphone. She presses a couple of candy canes into my palm and says, “one for you, one for your fella,” and winks. 

“Thanks, Mrs. C.” I give her a quick hug, then hop down off the stage back into the center of the clearing. 

“Hi!” I say breathlessly to Baz, my words puffing out in front of me in the cold night air. “Here you go.” I hand him one of the candy canes. 

“Well. That was…”

“Embarrassing, I know. I’m used to humiliating myself in public, so I figured I may as well go all out for Christmas.”

“No--I wasn’t going to say that. You actually -- you’re very entertaining. These people clearly thought so. Your voice is--it’s really quite good. Better than I thought it would be based on the singing I’ve heard you do at work.”

“Nah…” I wave him off.

“Well…” he says again. I think I may have gone and made it awkward between us now. Serenading someone you don’t actually know that well in public, as it turns out, is maybe not the way to immediately make a connection with them.

Or so I thought.

“You know...I think that song has been around long enough that we can consider it a Christmas classic by now.”

I look at him in surprise. “It’s not Judy Garland, though.”

“No, of course not. But, Mariah Carey? I think we can all confidently say by now that she has cemented her diva status.” He’s looking around, eyes landing on the hot chocolate vendor. “Drink?”

Baz buys us both a hot chocolate and we find ourselves ambling again through the winding paths of the market. The crowd is thinning out as the night goes on so it feels like a fairy tale maze just the two of us are trying to escape. We sip our hot chocolate in amiable silence. I’m trying not to get too excited when I see him stealing glances at me out of the corner of my eye, try not to guess what that could mean.

Eventually we hit a dead end. The stalls here are closed up for the evening, but there’s a large pergola with a few benches scattered around. Without speaking, we both move to one of the benches to finish our cocoas, sitting down as close as possible to one another. 

It’s nice. I wonder if he thinks it’s nice. 

“So...uhhh...have you found the Christmas spirit yet?” I ask, scratching at the back of my head.

“I will admit this was a pleasant evening, Snow. You have quite a way of...I don’t know. It’s like--people seem to be drawn to you. All night, I felt like I was with some magical being everyone was attracted to. And I was like the ugly little winter forest creature just tagging along behind you, my Grinch heart weighing you down.”

“ _ What? _ ! Ugly little...Baz.” I turn to face him. He turns his face to meet me. It’s so, so close - closer than we’ve ever been. “Surely you know how gorgeous you are.”

His breath hitches slightly. “Having no Christmas cheer makes people ugly, Snow. I know that.” The sadness in his voice is cracking something open inside me. 

“No, Baz. You’re --- you’re…” I can’t finish this sentence. Instead, I reach up, rubbing a strand of his hair between my fingers. “You’re luminous,” I whisper. “Like a Christmas star.” 

I tilt my face even closer until our foreheads are resting together. Tentatively, I reach my lips to his, delivering a quick peck on his mouth before pulling back to gauge his reaction. I don't think I knew I was going to do that until I did it, and now it feels like this kiss was sitting there with me the whole time. 

He hasn’t backed away; he hasn’t moved a millimeter or maybe even breathed.

Instead of recoiling like I expect once he realizes what I’ve done, he leans in again and reaches up to brush my curls off my forehead. I close my eyes, feeling rather than smelling him, something spicy and sharp. 

His arms come up around me. I sigh as I feel his weight press into me through his fancy coat, too many layers separating us. We meet in the middle, lips soft and slow. It feels like lightning coursing through my chest, coming out my fingertips, which I use to brush back his silken hair and stroke his cheeks. 

A moment later we part, still clinging to each other on the bench. I look up for just a split second, then I see it. And I laugh.

“Baz!” I breathe out, pointing above us. He tilts his head up, spotting the spring of mistletoe dangling from one of the cross beams of the pergola above us. He looks back at me, mischief gleaming in his eye.

“Were you plotting to corner me under the mistletoe all night, Snow?”

“I swear I didn’t know it was here,” I smile stupidly; I can’t seem to stop stupid smiling now that I’ve started. 

“Hmmm,” he hums in amusement, lowering his hand to rest on my knee. “So.”

“So,” I say, wondering what happens now. 

“So, I was thinking…” He looks down into his lap, at where his hand is still resting on my knee. “Would you want to come back to my apartment sometime? I could...show you  _ Meet Me In St. Louis _ ?” He bites his lip nervously and looks away.

As if I could ever say no to him now.

I nod crazily. “Yes. Yes, I’d love that, Baz.”

“Good,” he nods, then stands abruptly. I look up at him, worried that he’s going to run away. Instead, he holds out his arm to me. I take his outstretched hand in an instant, then I’m up, my palm pressing against his. 

“Your hands are freezing, Baz,” I say, squeezing a little tighter. 

“And yours are searing hot, Snow. Do you always run hot? Is that why you’re always in short sleeves at work?”

“Oh--yeah. I even sleep with the window open in the middle of winter.”

He swings our hands playfully between us a bit. “Hmmm... good to know.”

I blush, looking down at the two of our feet walking in sync. 

As we wander back to the entrance of the market, I hear another one of my favorite Christmas tunes.

_ I want to thank the storm that brought the snow...Thanks to the string of lights that make it glow...I want to thank you, baby… _

I start humming, belting out the last line (not done with singing in front of people tonight, it seems): “ _ You make it feel like Christmas!!” _

“Oh, god, Snow... _ this song _ ?”

“What? C’mon, Baz! A little bit country? A little bit punk rock? How could you not like this one?”

“Some things are never meant to mix, Snow - like Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani. Worst couple ever.” 

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one, Baz. But hey -- terrible taste in Christmas music aside...Merry Christmas?” It’s a question. I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

He looks down at me, beaming. “Merry Christmas, Snow.” He bends down to kiss me on top of my head with such affection that I think my heart will burst.

I squeeze his hand, and we head out of the market and into the winter night, together. 


End file.
